


Eye of the Storm

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Biting, Bruises, Creampie, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, F/M, Genderless Reader (you pick), Loss of Control, M/M, Other, Punishment, Rough Sex, Spanking, Tsundere Midorima Shintarou, ambiguous reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25228087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: Midorima's poise and dignity have not yet recovered, cast to the wolves, and replaced by a band of shadows that dance across his face. He'd never admit it aloud, but he's pleased by your momentary lapse in judgment. It gives him an excuse to unwind: to turn all of his hard lines into the attraction of cohesion and gravitation, to grind the edges of his bitter resolve down to the soft shores of shameless pleasure, to meld his acuity and clairvoyance into sexual gratification.
Relationships: Midorima Shintarou/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	Eye of the Storm

“I don't know what right you think you have to look so upset. You brought this on yourself,” Midorima says stiffly.

He lets his shoulders sag slightly as his splayed fingers drum idly against your backside. The deep flush of your skin composes itself into a certain kind of cautionary clause but it's not enough to keep him from stroking your flesh as if he can soothe the savage ache solely by his delicate touch. It's an inveterate practice, instinctual and automatic, but it's also a physical reminder to take into account your fragile state—an oversight on the part of your desirous longing to push him beyond the comforts of his usual control.

You inhale a deep breath that shakes apart in your throat and the oxygen that enters your lungs tastes a touch too bitter on your tongue. You can taste salt on your lips from the tears that ran in crystalline rivulets down your face only moments ago. The byproduct tastes like raw comprehension and forecast stupefaction, and the amalgamation of acerbity and brine tastes a day old and slightly stale but it's tolerable because Midorima is by your side.

His poise and dignity have not yet recovered, cast to the wolves, and replaced by a band of shadows that dance across his face. He'd never admit it aloud, but he's pleased by your momentary lapse in judgment. It gives him an excuse to unwind: to turn all of his hard lines into the attraction of cohesion and gravitation, to grind the edges of his bitter resolve down to the soft shores of shameless pleasure, to meld his acuity and clairvoyance into sexual gratification.

Midorima has never been the easiest person to get along with and many have given up trying. Yet it would seem as though you're the rare exception to his every stated and unspoken rule alike—you never had to put yourself on the line for Midorima to notice you. You're the summer solstice to the middle of his winter and the daily dose of everything he can't quit.

Which is why he tells you that you're bad for his health because when you're around he can't control himself. For a long time, the statement seemed ludicrous because Midorima was the very definition of mastery and command. After the thaw, he was nothing but gentle caresses, petal-soft kisses, and sugar-sweet affection. The ice that had gathered in his veins dissolved and whatever had frozen over his heart warmed and became soft.

Then, one night, as if he were acting for an unforeseen contingency, he snapped like the tail-end of a bullwhip coming down hard against leather.

It was crazy and wild and it felt like taking a hard-left right into a freight train city. It was everything you never knew you needed but the shock came so hard it left you breathless from the impact.

You didn't expect it to happen again but it did—and the key was to reach inside of him and pull out the monster that lived deep within the spongy marrow of his bones. The glutton for ownership and dominance, the creature who thrived off of the agonies of jealousy and the throes of passion.

The beast who is here with you tonight, dressed in the guise of a doctor who's intent on examining every inch of your body. The man who won't grant you mercy even if you were to fall at his feet and beg for it. You've played with fire and swallowed the darkness drinking from your cup in the name of desire. No, you won't be graced with words of clemency; not tonight. You're too eager, champing at the bit, and he's too exacting, too invested in the scene you've created.

You try to fight for what you want but there's too great a discrepancy between the capacity of your impatience and the power of his control. You yearn to feel him inside of you, his cock slick and thrumming with need akin to your own. You long for the feeling of fullness, for the heat of his sweat-damp skin, for the slide of friction, and the burn of resistance.

But Midorima doesn't play nice. He makes you wait; drains the juice from the fruits of your self-control, crushes your composure in his iron-fist, and halves your humility with the heat of his gaze. You dwell on sufferance where Midorima plays, and you're dizzy and weak and desperate by the time he relinquishes the hope of surpassing his record of restraint.

You feel high on adrenaline and drunk on desire when he flips you over and sobers you with an open-mouthed and hungry kiss. He enters your body with a sharp and punctuated thrust, his fingers like branches against your hips. He pushes himself down to the root, sinking to where he'll plant his seed. His skin feels like the heavens and the clouds in your lungs are making it hard to breathe.

His face blurs like a painting when you try to blink your vision to clarity and his words burn like the sun, whispered against the shell of your ear. His voice sounds like art and his lips feel like the brush, drawing your lines so well that you can feel his every breath run through your soul. He touches you like glass and moves through you like water, his fingers ghosting your bruises like he can't help himself, like the need to feel the ache is eating him alive.

You slide your fingers through his hair as a horticulturist digs their hands into the dirt and tug at the roots of his verdant strands. You close your eyes and imagine a scarp of black rock but the precipice is too steep and when Midorima cants his hips, you're flooded by waters that blur the edges of reason and rapture.

Midorima parts his lips to exhale a gust of fierce infatuation that cools the sweat sticking to your skin. It sends a shiver up your spine that branches off into lightning. He touches you with manicured nails and drags the cool edges of his teeth across your skin. Dark clouds chase the light out of his eyes as a torrent of salacious utterances rain down on you, taking you by storm.

You call out his name and claw at the sheets as your back draws away from the surface beneath you. You feel like you're standing at a crossroads between a moment of reparation and some kind of revolution but present at the subversion of all nature regardless of which path you choose.

Midorima emits a low and silky sound that resonates deep in his chest. He undulates his hips and you think you can feel the tonality move through you. Every hitch of breath, every muted moan, every hushed whisper, slides through your bloodstream and curls around your spine. The precise fluctuation of his movements waxes his body like an instrument; it plays a melody that beats like a drum against your skull and plucks at your heart like the strings on a harp.

Like a record on repeat, Midorima sings the same old song, his voice an echo that reminds you that you deserve this—that whatever punishment he doles out is justifiable in the name of reformation. His lecture—which sounds more lecherous than it should—slips into a growl as he scrapes his nails against your scalp. He tugs your head back until your neck is straining with tension, wholly exposed and vulnerable. He catches a section of skin between his teeth and bites down just enough to leave a tiny imprint in your flesh but you can't feel it over the thrum of your pulse. He sucks on the tender tissue as every cell in your body sparks into animation, filling you with an electric discharge that ignites your heart.

Midorima promises visible bruises as he drives himself deeper, harder, his rhythm wavering as he pins his focus on marking you under the aegis of his selfish love. You can hear the catch of skin against skin, so tangible that you can taste the salt-damp of his sweat on your lips.

You feel like you're swimming out to the center of a burning sea. Midorima stretches you out until you can't tell where his limbs end and yours begin. He tangles you up in unfolded decoration, undoes your seams, and pulls apart your threads. He has you reeling, has you crying out for a deity you don't believe exists. You throw yourself into his movements, fully aware that you could be diving headlong into the murky waters of disallowance. You bite down on your tongue to silence a scream and begin to shudder as Midorima puts his skilled fingers to work against your sex.

You have to pin your focus to a bead of sweat that rolls down the sharp angle of his jaw, afraid that if you don't center your attention to something, _anything_ , that you're going to lose consciousness entirely.

Midorima moves like the demons that crawl just beneath the surface of his skin when he pins you down against the bed and whispers: “Do you want to come?”

His voice hits your ear like the smooth brush of leather against your fingertips. The taste it leaves on your tongue is pure and unadulterated despite the filth bound between you, like the smell of fresh-cut roses and expensive bourbon. The old feeling of affinity sweeps over you, stronger than ever, and you think that Midorima defines perfection. He is the firm water, the cold flame, the burning ash, and the blistering sand. He is everything you need and all that you want.

You give him your answer, breathless and shaky but decisive for the sake of your sanity. Midorima, if you should allow it, can play this game for hours. He knows how to make you fold, how to pull you apart and put you back together again, how to leave you withering like fragments on the breeze. He knows more about you than you even know about yourself.

The drag of his hardness together with the building hypersensitivity of your arousal is like a lethal combination in the dark. He is an upstanding gentleman on most days, but currently, he's the boy with the broken halo, a pistol in his hand, and gunpowder on his breath. Needless to say, if he's the gunslinger then you're the law, and there's only one way this can end. If it's between what's right and what's wrong, you will let morality bleed from your body and accept his hail of bullets with a smile.

Midorima presses a partially bandaged hand to your chest and stares into your eyes despite how much his glasses have slipped down his nose. “I want you to come for me, ____.” It's spoken like a request but it's unmistakably an order.

Midorima changes his trajectory just enough that a muffled cry tears up your throat and into wavering sound. His hips come down against your flesh and his arms frame you in a self-made cage. He angles his movements in a way that sends a kaleidoscope of color to the backs of your eyes. It's all you can see for a moment, as if you've just had the misfortune of looking into the bright flash of a camera; then, the spectrum bursts into a thousand microscopic stars. Your body is tightly drawn and your toes are curling in on a cramp that cautions spasm and pain. It's an idle threat, however, because your awareness is trapped somewhere between Nirvana and extinction.

You're still in a place that holds the transient quality of a dream—wandering through empty churches with their soulless curses and hollowed-out congregation—when Midorima succumbs to the deeper grounds of his pleasure. His body shakes with incitement and his fingertips leave shallow indentations in your skin. You can feel the warm spill of his capitulation move inside of you, joining you in the most intimate way possible. You lift a weighted arm and rest your hand over Midorima's, which involuntarily adds more pressure to the depressions shaping your skin.

You inhale a depthless breath and note the distinctive smell of salt and sweat in the air. It's reminiscent of the beach and a fantasy begins to play inside your head like a movie screen. Your love for the man above you knows no bounds, see no limits, and has no end.

And even considering the irrefutable truth of what you've just done and the current evidence: the weight of Midorima's body bearing down against your frame, the perspiration clinging to your skin, the way his cock is softening inside of you, and the viscous fluid that slips past the intrusion and down the inner curve of your thigh—the distance between you feels too great. You want to melt into his skin and stay cradled in the safety of his heart. It's not your most sane and well-adjusted thought but it's true, nonetheless.

Midorima draws himself upright slowly, a soft sigh slipping past his parted lips. He settles into a more comfortable position on the bed and pulls you toward him until you're facing each other. He's brighter than the brightest of stars and you're scared to look him in the eye for fear of losing your sight. But then he threads your fingers together and the light doesn't seem so blinding—or maybe it's just that it's shifted to some distant shore for the moment.

Midorima changes like the weather but the smell of his skin and the marks he leaves on your body remain consistent. Just like the calming tones of his voice when he runs his fingers through your hair and the fondness he holds for you are constant. And the things that remain temperamental and ever-changing are the same things that only you have had the pleasure of being a part of.

Thus, regardless of what other people might think, you have no intention of letting that go. Midorima might be as unpredictable as a hurricane but you are the eye of his storm, and that's right where you belong. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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